


Magnetic

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Ficlet, M/M, Tolkien Characters Star Trek Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 22:59:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8263534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Captain Elrond’s reluctant to let Commander Lindir go.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I don’t normally do crossovers, but as this (rn) is my 1111th fic on Ao3, I merged my two loves by putting Elrondir aboard a Voyager-esque ship. (No Trek knowledge is required.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, or Star Trek or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He arrives twenty minutes early for his shift, and it might be the first time in years that he’s in his chair before Lindir. He can remember the days, what seem like centuries past, that Lindir boarded as an eager young lieutenant, always five minutes ahead of everyone else with reports twice as long as necessary. But today a transmission from Arwen woke Elrond before his alarm, and when he isn’t sleeping, there’s nowhere on his ship he’d rather be than the bridge.

He’s just reached the center when Erestor announces from Ops, “You have a priority message from Starfleet, Captain.” 

Elrond acknowledges with a curt, “Thank you,” and diverts automatically to his ready room. He needs to reach a replicator soon anyway—in hindsight, it was foolish to skip the customary cup of coffee. As soon as the automatic doors slide shut behind him, he tells the computer, “Coffee, black.” It takes barely a second for the particles to coalesce in the slot. 

With the freshly steaming mug in hand, Elrond settles into the sleek grey lines of his desk. The terminal atop it flickers to life as the sensors read him. The Starfleet logo gives way to a simple document, thankfully not coded. Out on the frontier, he’s more used to high-security bad news than casual good news from admirals, but the first sentence alone reveals the benign nature of the transmission.

Then Elrond gets deeper into the letter, and he realizes that benevolence, at least in this case, is a subject term. The message is _technically_ good news.

But each word makes his heart sink lower in his chest. His coffee tastes bitterer than usual. By the time he’s finished reading, he’s not sure he has the stomach to drink anymore.

As the long-established captain of the U.S.S. _Imladris_ , it’s his prerogative to stay in his ready room as long as he likes. He could whittle the entire shift away in here, or even pop down to the messhall or holodeck and waste his time entirely. Lindir is quite capable of running the ship in his absence. But Elrond’s never spent a shift away from the bridge. And now more than ever, the more time he spends hidden away, the more he’s aware that he’s missing time with a certain member of his crew.

He still doesn’t go out until alpha shift has officially begun. Erestor is pulling a double and still on Ops, but most of the other stations have changed. Glorfindel now hovers behind the security console, Maeglin at the helm, Voronwë next to him on navigation. Lindir is seated gingerly beside the captain’s chair, his long legs folded and his slender hands resting in his lap. His hair is twisted into a braid that trails down one elegant shoulder, waist-length in the style of their shared planet but kept contained under the practical environment of a starship. Elrond used to wear his own up, back when it was similarly long. He cut it beyond the ability of braids a few months ago, when Lindir made a passing comment about finding the shorter human fashion strikingly attractive. The smile that met Elrond on the bridge that first day after his cut was thoroughly worth the culture shock.

His crew is mostly comprised of elves, but humans are the second largest portion, with several other alien species fully integrated. Despite all his time amongst the more diverse options of the United Federation of Planets, it’s Lindir’s particularly _Elven_ beauty that Elrond most prefers. Lindir’s Starfleet uniform clings to his supple form, tailored perfectly, the golden rank pips shining impressively along his collar, but Elrond still looks forward to the extremely rare occasion where he’ll find Lindir off duty in the robes of their people. Now that beauty, from the delicate points of Lindir’s ears to the unique light in his eyes, makes it difficult for Elrond to cross the bridge.

He doesn’t. His throat’s gone dry, and he clears it to announce, “I need to see you in my ready room, Commander.” As soon as it’s out, he regrets the phrasing. If Lindir caught anything inappropriate in the order, he doesn’t show it.

He answers crisply, “Of course, Captain,” and rises from his chair with the sort of grace that ensigns fawn over. 

There are no odd looks as the two of them disappear through the door just off the bridge—confidential meetings aren’t unusual. Elrond feels like he’s acting overly stiff, but he’s been in service long enough to be able to hide his deeper emotions from those under his command. He takes his seat behind the desk again, and Lindir settles into the plush chair already pulled up in front of it. His posture is exacting, his face pleasant but carefully neutral. He’s the picture of order on the bridge.

Over the years, he’s slowly loosened up around Elrond, at least when they’re off duty, and when they’re alone, he’ll often dawn the most alluring smiles Elrond’s ever seen. But the use of his rank in the summons marked this as official, and now he remains formal for it. He waits patiently for Elrond to explain.

Elrond needs a minute. His coffee’s still sitting on the table, and he takes another sip just to stall, then thinks to ask, “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you.”

Of course. Lindir rarely takes refreshments on duty. There’s no one more... _proper_... on the entire ship.

There’s no one more integral to Elrond’s structure, both professionally and personally. But he knows how important Starfleet is to his first officer, and he finally manages to say, “Congratulations, Commander.”

Lindir lifts one brow and cocks his head cutely to the side. The message claimed to give Elrond the ‘honour’ of imparting the news, but he half expected the usual gossip channels to be quicker. Of course, Lindir is the last person to indulge in gossip.

With painstaking control, Elrond shares, “Starfleet has granted you command of the U.S.S. _Rivendell_. It’s a new galaxy-class starship that’s just been commissioned. We’ll be altering course to her starbase as soon as our relief mission to Mrennenimus II is completed.” He means to say ‘congratulations’ again but remembers that he’s just said it. He’s never felt so awkward with his own officer, and he finishes laboriously, “You deserve it, Commander. They couldn’t have found a more worthy captain.”

Lindir looks... stunned. Beyond that. His eyes have grown wider with each word, and now his soft lips have fallen slightly ajar. Elrond found the news just as shocking. Though he thinks Lindir more than qualified and the most deserving officer in Starfleet, Elrond never once put in such a recommendation. It’s something he’s struggled with on many occasions, but selfishness always won out. 

He’s not sure what he expected. Lindir is, for the most part, a reserved character. Even during those rare, treasured moments where he would invite Elrond to his quarters to hear a song from his harp, his air was subdued. Yet a promotion of this magnitude should invoke _some_ semblance of joy. Lindir only looks... miffed.

He licks his lips, drawing Elrond’s eyes to the movement, and looks down at his lap. He tries to talk, but says nothing, and instead tugs nervously at the black sleeve of his uniform.

One of his few failings, which Elrond’s half considers more a personal quirk than a true problem, is a tendency to over-worry. Guessing that, perhaps, Lindir isn’t sure if he’s worthy of such a promotion, Elrond announces, “You deserve it, Lindir. You’ll make a fine captain.”

Lindir says, “Thank you,” but still looks concerned. When he does finally meet Elrond’s gaze again, he seems more troubled than ever. Elrond finds the news just as bittersweet.

He knows he should leave it at praise, but he says before he can stop himself, “We’ll miss you terribly.”

It isn’t really a _we_. But he can’t say it personally. It’d give away too much.

Lindir quietly returns, “I... I couldn’t imagine serving anywhere but here.”

Elrond smiles sadly. “Unfortunately, I don’t plan on retirement any time soon.” He’s considered accepting the always-there offer of admiralty, if only to escape this daily heartbreak, but he could never fully bring himself to leave. Lindir doesn’t mention the possibility.

He corrects in an almost-whisper, “I meant under you.”

Elrond’s combadge chirps against his chest. He taps it to save himself the trouble of acknowledging how similarly he feels. Glorfindel’s voice reports, _“We’re reading an energy blip on sensors, Captain. It’s likely nothing, but I thought you should know just in case.”_

Normally, if Elrond had Lindir in his office, he’d say he’ll be out shortly and leave it to the rest of his thoroughly competent crew, prolonging alone time with his first. Today, he needs the reprieve, and he gets up to indicate he’s answering it in person. Lindir follows suit, and they exit onto the bridge together, both wearing shallow frowns.

* * *

The readings don’t reappear, and the medical supplies they’re carrying need to be delivered on schedule, so they don’t stop to investigate. They continue plunging through the stars at Warp Seven, the viewscreen a black image dotted with white streaks. It’s a fairly routine mission, and the journey’s been a quiet one. There’s nothing for Elrond to do but sit in his chair, acutely aware of Lindir seated right next to him, and think. 

But all he can think about is what his bridge will be like without his faithful first officer.

He’ll have a new one, of course. Glorfindel is his current second and already has the commander rank. Glorfindel’s loyal, highly intelligent, and has a service record even more lengthy than Elrond’s.

But he’s not _Lindir_. And even with Lindir’s relative youth and inexperience, there’s no one as valuable. There’s no one with whom Elrond feels such a close connection. There’ve been missions where he’s delivered entire orders through single looks in Lindir’s direction; Lindir always reads him well. Lindir is studiously respectful of him. Lindir’s been _his_ so long that Elrond almost never thinks of the times before. He’s seen half the galaxy with Lindir. He took Lindir to his daughter’s wedding. The _Imladris_ will be lesser without Lindir.

Lindir’s silent for his entire shift. Elrond’s sure he has much to think about. But he doesn’t once waver from his gentle frown, and for the first time in his commission, he’s the first to leave at the end of the their shift.

Elrond lingers to keep himself from doing anything foolish. Tuor, come to take over watch during the ‘night’ shift, politely waits Elrond out. 

Eventually, he vacates before his chief medical officer can comm up and order it.

* * *

It feels like a cruelly long walk back to his quarters, where he plans to eat dinner alone. He doesn’t wish to broadcast his dark mood all over the mess hall, and he’s never had a private dinner in the captain’s mess without Lindir, and he’s not sure he can withstand more of their difficult silence. The doors to his quarters open for him with a subtle whir. He takes a few steps in, hand lifting to the collar of his uniform, then halts abruptly by the dinner table.

He left it empty. His quarters are one of the most clean and orderly on the _Imladris_ , second only to Lindir’s. But two places are set atop the glass surface, with a large metal pot, a vase of elanor flowers, and seven candles artistically arranged in the center. Elrond’s still staring when a timid voice calls, “Captain...?”

Elrond’s eyes close. He takes in a deep breath and knows he’ll need it. He authorized Lindir’s access to his private quarters long ago. He almost regrets it now. This only makes things harder.

He follows the voice anyway, coming to stand in the doorway of his bedroom. His mouth was open, ready to gently discourage a private dinner, but he loses the words immediately.

Lindir sits on the edge of Elrond’s mattress, his feather-light weight hardly causing any indent at all. His long hair is loose, cascading down his shoulders and back, two intricate braids lining his handsome face and the rest glistening in the low-set light. His uniform is gone. He wears only lace robes, sheer in places and so thin they may as well be everywhere, the leaf-like pattern of the lace and the varying green hues reminding Elrond distinctly of the woodlands of their home. These robes would’ve had to be replicated—Elrond couldn’t imagine Lindir purchasing them from anyone; they’re fit only for intimate occasions. The back of the robes drapes down the side of Elrond’s bed, but one of Lindir’s pale legs is crossed over the other and thrust between the part, splitting the robes all the way up to the corseted middle and baring all smooth skin. Elrond’s been to over a hundred different worlds, and he’s never seen a vision so enticing. He doesn’t know what to do or say that can do it justice. He finds himself simply staring, eyes roaming everywhere, drinking in every detail that he’s only seen before in desperate fantasies.

“I apologize,” Lindir starts, his gaze demurely lowered and his voice holding a clearly nervous lilt, “if this is unwanted. I... I will transfer right away if I have over stepped, and there will be no need for you to see me again. I assure you, I would not have risked such insubordination if it weren’t for the opportunity to leave and spare you any further discomfort.”

The only discomfort Elrond feels is that of his own restraint. It’s suddenly become infinitely more difficult to keep his hands still at his sides. He’s dimly aware that he should assure Lindir that such worries aren’t unnecessary. But when he fails to manage any words at all, Lindir continues.

“I... please, forgive me, Captain... but I don’t wish to go.” He sucks in his own deep breath, and Elrond watches in rapt fascination the steady rise and release of his lithe chest. When he meets Elrond’s eyes, his own are so intense that Elrond’s heart constricts. “I don’t want to be anywhere but on this ship, with you.”

Elrond takes half a step forward before he manages to rein his control back in. His fingers are digging tightly into his palm. He has to say, “Lindir, I won’t be the one to hold you back.”

Lindir doesn’t miss a beat. “You know I don’t want to be captain, Elrond. I enjoy service, not spotlights. I wouldn’t even be considering this promotion if it weren’t for the need to escape the daily torture of serving with you without truly being _with you._ ”

Elrond stares at him. Lindir stares right back. At first, Elrond’s just taking it in, trying to be certain he hasn’t misunderstood, and then he’s wondering how he managed to miss this. He thought their connection so close that he knew everything about Lindir. It’s strange to think that Lindir kept his feelings hidden as well as Elrond apparently did.

Elrond’s taken too long to answer. Lindir blurts, “I’m sorry,” and gets up, looking ready to run.

But Elrond comes closer at the same time, and it gives Lindir no room to get away. Elrond backs him right into the bed, pins his legs to it, and reaches out without quite knowing how. Elrond’s only slightly taller, and when he tilts his head, his nose brushes the tip of Lindir’s. He was going to talk this through but pushes forward instead.

He hits Lindir’s mouth in a jarring, clumsy motion. One hand shoots up to cup Lindir’s face, the other landing at Lindir’s hip—the robe is every bit as soft as it looks, but still not as much as Lindir’s lips. The kiss is a warm, chaste thing, over too soon, but as soon as he’s pulled away, Lindir’s pulling him back in by two fists at his front—Lindir clutches his uniform tight enough to rip it clean off. He surrenders to another kiss and opens when he feels Lindir’s tongue pressing at his lips. 

Elrond’s a creature of habit and propriety. He hasn’t had any personal dalliances since the mother of his children, long before he even had his Starfleet commission. This single burst of indiscretion feels more _right_ than anything he’s done in ages. Lindir molds right into him, arching forward to flatten them together, and Elrond only wraps his arm tighter around Lindir’s waist to enhance that closeness. Lindir’s tongue slips into his mouth with a surprising ease, and when Elrond presses his own back, it becomes a natural ebb and flow between them. His fingers slip back into Lindir’s hair, running through it and marveling at the sleekness. Everywhere they touch makes Elrond glow, makes him hotter, ravenous, and he kisses harder and harder until he can feel Lindir bending back, and they collapse onto the mattress, lightly bouncing up with the waiting springs. The kiss finally breaks, their legs in a tangle over the edge. Elrond looks down at Lindir and gently thumbs his cheek, wondering how this took so long. 

Lindir asks in a reverent whisper, “Should I stay, then?”

Elrond answers just as quietly, “Please stay.” A part of him still thinks it wrong to hold this fair being back in rank. 

But Lindir smiles like a supernova and wraps his arms around Elrond’s shoulders. He guides Elrond down, pressing their foreheads together. He breathes, “Then I’ll be yours forever.” 

Elrond wouldn’t have it any other way. He brushes another kiss over Lindir’s lips, intent on taking _more_ : feeling Lindir’s warm body crushed beneath his is a temptation too great to bear. Lindir meets one kiss, then turns his face aside to dodge the next, and asks, “Ah... but it’s been a long day, and I already replicated dinner. Should we eat it now?”

It’s hard to want food when _Lindir’s_ so delectable, and Elrond promises, “Later,” before burying his beloved first officer in love.


End file.
